


My Loveless Haze

by wandmaker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Mild Profanity, non-canon relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:38:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandmaker/pseuds/wandmaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the War, a desperate Narcissa takes advantage of an ancient bonding ritual to secure the continuation of the Malfoy dynasty. A certain Slytherin and her Gryffindor counterpart are not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Loveless Haze

Nobody ever would have believed that it could happen so quickly. One minute, Voldemort was a festering, snake-faced canker, poised to take over the entire wizarding world...and the next minute, he was dead. Dust. Evaporated. Gone to his not-so-rewarding reward. (Preferably, he was now suffering the endless torments of Hell in a pink, lacy thong spending Eternity giving pedicures to mountain trolls.)

He was killed (Surprise, surprise!) by Harry “Four Eyes” Potter. There had been none of the predicted mass carnage. No pitched battle between the forces of Dark and Light. It happened so quickly that it was over before anyone else knew what happened.

In the end, it was down to a one on one - like a climactic shootout in some Hollywood B-Western.

Please. You think I’ve never seen a muggle film? Pureblood parents are so bloody stupid. First, they warn their children that muggle entertainment is disgusting. Then, they forbid them to ever see it. I mean, honestly! Why not just wave a red flag in front of a hippogriff?

Anyhow. The Boy Who Saved the World Again simply took the Dark Lord out with a single curse. There was something so exquisitely symmetrical about it, wouldn’t you agree? Nearly 18 years to the day that Voldemort had used the same curse on baby Potter, Potter turns around and uses it on him. The Weird Sisters would soon commemorate the victory in their immortal hit song: “Avada Kedavra Back-At-Ya!”

The powerful backwash from the Killing Curse knocked Potter into a week-long coma. He had no idea about the delirious celebrations, the dancing in the streets of Hogsmeade or his freshly awarded Order of Merlin First Class. Potter could name his future – Minister, Chief Mugwump or even Headmaster of Hogwarts. The entire wizarding world was gift-wrapped in a glittering package at his feet. But unknowing, he slept on.

Seven days passed and Harry Potter awoke to discover that the love of his life was now engaged to Draco Malfoy. On stormy nights, they say you can still hear the shrieks and curses whistling through the corridors of St. Mungo’s.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”

“Calm down, mate!”

“How the bloody hell to you expect me to calm the fuck down, Ron??? You tell me your sister is marrying that sniveling piece-of-shit, Malfoy? My girl! Are you fucking nuts?”

Weasley and Lupin had to physically restrain the young hero.

There was a pause. “What happened? Just tell me.”

“I’m so sorry, pup,” Lupin said quietly. Harry had been through so much. He deserved better. The werewolf hated this. It sucked. It wasn’t fair. “As soon as Voldemort fell, Narcissa invoked “In Verto.”

The “Meus Filius In Verto,” or “My Child for Yours,” was one of the most sacred acts of contrition in the wizarding world. It was known more simply as “The Rite of Wrongs.” It was thousands of years old, and used throughout history when a family had suffered a grievous loss in wartime. It was only invoked when the head of pureblood family was responsible for the death of a child in another pureblood family. Particularly, a son of breeding age.

Shortly before his own rendezvous with a five-ton chunk of falling gargoyle-shaped masonry, Lucius Malfoy had murdered Percy Weasley during a Death Eater raid on the Ministry of Magic. Personally, I don’t think there was anything heinous about it. Percy was a snotty little prick. Lucius only killed him because he’d been standing in his way, and the senior Malfoy always hated to say “Excuse me.”

Anyhow, one had to admit, Narcissa was always a crafty witch. If she’d learned anything from her years as a Death Eater wife, it was how to come out on the winning side. A matrimonial alliance with the pureblood poster family of the Light, would salvage the Malfoy reputation...not to mention, fortune. There was also the matter of all that rather impressive Weasley fertility. The continuation of the Malfoy Dynasty would be assured. Yes, once her beloved Draco was safely married to the little red-headed broodmare, the Malfoy name would be cleansed and renewed. Nobody could stop the Rite of Wrongs. Not even the pasty-faced half-blood Potter. Even a hero could not fight such an old magic.

ANYHOW, BACK AT ST, MUNGO’S -

“Ginny loves me.”

“It doesn’t matter, mate.” Ron shook his head sadly. “There was no one to contest the Rite.”

“Of course not, since I was in a bloody fucking coma at the time! But Ginny and I were going to be married.”

“Did you actually ASK her, mate?”

“We had an...understanding.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I had just gotten my Mum’s ring from the Gringott’s vault. It was in my pocket...”

“But did you ask her to marry you, Harry?”

“I told you – we had a date in Diagon Alley. I was on my way to propose when I ran into Voldemort.” 

“It wasn’t a magical engagement,” Lupin sighed. “You never even told her parents of your intention to court, did you?”

“But everybody KNEW how I feel about Ginny!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ron sank down on the bed next to his best friend. “The engagement isn’t recognized by in the wizarding world.”

Okay. So, that’s where we leave Harry for the moment. He’s about to cry. So he’s not going to marry the girl of his dreams. Boo Hoo. All that cheap sentiment makes me want to hurl. If you don’t mind, let us dissolve to a couple of weeks later. Our intrepid Gryffindork was holed up at Grimmauld Place with the werewolf Lupin and a psychotic house elf named Dobby.

Miss Ginevra Weasley had already paid our maudlin hero a visit. She’d been sobbing her eyes out, as well. Believe me, it looked worse on her. Sobbing redheads always look like rats, if you want my opinion.

“Harry!” she blubbered all over his shoulder. “I can’t marry him! He’s horrid!”

“You’re not marrying him, love. Not ever!” Harry whispered harshly.

I’m sure at this point, there was plenty of desperate, passionate, sloppy kissing. Pardon me while I vomit.

But none of this mattered. All the sobs, protestations and passionate groping meant nothing in the end. The Weasley chit gazed into those emerald eyes of her True Beloved and whimpered in utter despair.

“Why didn’t you ever just ASK me, Harry?”

“It’s going to be alright, baby. We can just elope.”

“No, we can’t. The Rite is binding once the wronged family accepts.”

Even if he was an annoying ponce, you had to feel sorry for Harry’s utter naivete about wizard traditions. He might fly a Firebolt with untold skill and grace, but his unfortunate muggle upbringing had left him in complete ignorance of his magical heritage. He was totally clueless when it came to our customs. Poor clod.

“We’ll just get married the muggle way, that’s all.”

“Harry, you don’t understand. When a wizarding family invokes the Rite, it’s...”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s sacred. Whatever.”

“Oh, Merlin...” She started sobbing again. “I hate Draco! I don’t want to marry him! Having him...touch me! I only want you, Harry! Only you!”

“Sweet Merlin, don’t cry, Gin!”

(If you don’t mind, I’d rather not watch anymore. It’s just too sickening.) Suffice it to say, these maudlin scenes repeated themselves, ad nauseum, for the next few weeks. Finally, the fat-ass Weasley Matriarch, herself, was forced to intervene.

“Harry, you know, you’re like another son to me...but I must ask you to stop seeing Ginny.”

Oh, and look! There was Weasley Pere, putting his two knuts in, as well:

“Harry, I’m so sorry, but Ginny is going to marry Draco, and you must give her a chance to get used to the idea.”

All Harry could do was shake his head in disbelief. “How could you agree to such a thing, Mr. Weasley? You, of all people! You know how much Ginny loves me!”

“You don’t refuse ‘In Verto,’ Harry. If a son or daughter is unattached, there is no such thing as a refusal. The betrothal between Draco and Gin became magically binding as soon as Narcissa made the request and stamped it with the Malfoy signet.” The oldest Weasley looked tired and defeated, himself.

“But Draco despises Ginny. He’ll make her life a living hell!”

“Don’t exaggerate, Harry. Draco and Ginny will make a go of it, I’m sure.”

Harry thought the entire Weasley clan had gone insane. Of all the people to buy all into that ancient binding crap, who would have ever believed sensible people like Arthur and Molly?

* * * * * * * * * *

Well, I agreed completely with Potter. There was no way Draco Malfoy was ever going to care two pins about Ginevra Weasley. Draco never loved anyone except his mother and his old dragon plushie named Poo-Poo.

In case you give a shit, my name is Pansy Parkinson. I’ve loved Draco my entire life, although I’ve never been under any delusion that he would ever love me in return. Back when I was 11 years old and the Sorting Hat tried to place me in Hufflepuff, I threatened to pull it off my head and puke inside the brim. The threat worked just fine. So, there I was, in Slytherin where I could keep close to my Drakie.

It was seven years of your basic, one-sided, unrequited love. Like most conceited objects of a crush...Draco was well aware of his power over me. He kept it potent by occasionally throwing me a metaphorical bone here and there. He asked me to that ball during fourth year. Later, he’d call on me for the occasional snog when he was bored.

As that old muggle expression goes – he’d say “Jump!” and I’d ask “How high?”

Draco was in a fury when his mother effectively tied him down to a Weasley for the rest of his natural life.

“She’s abominable, Pans! She’s got that disgusting hair! And freckles!”

“My poor Drakie!”

“I utterly refuse to touch that repulsive little shrew!” He paced back in forth in his bedroom at the manor. “They expect me to actually have SEX with that creature?”

Like always, I let him rest his head on my lap so I could play with his silvery blond hair. Circe! I loved that hair. I had always known that I would probably not be marrying Draco, unless as a fallback. The Parkinsons were rich and important – but Lucius’ ambitions had always prevented a contract between our families. Mr. Malfoy had dreams of a grand alliance between his Draco and one of the great old pureblood families in France.

Poor Lucius. Nothing worked out for him in the end, did it?

“She’s hideous, Pans!” Draco was almost whimpering now.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do they actually expect me to marry one of Potty’s cast-offs?”

He looked absolutely pathetic, weeping into my lap like a first-year Hufflepuff. My heart ached for him, my poor Drakie.

And that’s when I decided to use the Potion.

* * * * * * * * * *

DAY ONE:

“Parkinson, you bitch! What do you want?

“That’s a charming greeting, Potter.”

He’d actually agreed to see me at that crumbling Black ruin, Grimmauld Place. He looked awful, I must admit. He was unshaven, his eyes were red-rimmed, and he hadn’t had a haircut in months.

“Just get to the point.”

So I did. I admitted to him what I’d never told another living soul. I told him how much I loved Draco Malfoy. How it ached to lose the hope of ever having him.

Potter just looked at me in disbelief, and the next thing I knew, we were in that huge, grim old parlor, downing a bottle of expensive fire whiskey.

It’s a funny thing. I mean, Potter and I had never exchanged one polite word through all our years at Hogwarts. I admit I’d been a bit of a nasty cow, but then again, he never had any use for Slytherins, either. Yet here we were, practically bonding over our lost loves. Misery really does want company.

We were sufficiently buzzed when Potter finally slurred, “Seriously, Parkinson. Why are you really here?”

A bit tipsy, I fumbled with my robes and drew out the two tiny vials. “You see this? You know what it is?”

“No bloody clue, Parkinson. More fire whiskey?”

“Yeah, what the hell.”

After another couple of shots, I handed one of the ancient vials to him. “Listen, Potter. This is a very rare and priceless potion.”

“So? What else is new?”

“Holy shit! You sneered just like Snape!”

“Did not,” Potter snapped back.

I felt a twinge of sadness thinking about my former Head of House who was currently fading away in the long term Spell Damage Ward at St. Mungo’s. 

“Anyhow, what’s so great about this particular potion and why should I care?”

“It’s a Parkinson family secret.”

“Just so you know – hearing the words ‘family secret’ and ‘rare potion’ make me rather nervous, Parkinson.”

“It’s just what we need, Potter.”

“What are you talking about?”

I have an ancestor who was utterly brilliant. She came up with many draughts, but this was her masterpiece. She didn’t speak old Latin or new Latin. Frankly, she didn’t give a damn about speaking anything but the Minister’s English. She named her potions accordingly. This particular one was called “Loveless Haze.” A reverse love potion, actually.

“Potter,” I glared right into those quickly clouding eyes of his, “It sucks being in love, doesn’t it? I’m miserable. You’re miserable. They’re miserable. The whole thing sucks.”

“Hear me arguing?”

“But the worst part is knowing that the person you love can’t ever be happy. There’s no hope for either of them...Draco or the Weas – Ginny.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah.”

“What if you could make it so that Draco loved Ginny as much as you do? And what if I could make Ginny adore Draco as much as I do?”

The silence could have cracked the room in half, I swear.

“This potion can do that?”

“Well, it just serves as a conduit, really. It takes love and transfers it out of one heart and into another...sort of. Draco will have Harry Potter’s feelings for Ginny Weasley. And Ginny will love Draco with all my heart. That was a pun, by the way.”

“Sounds like a bunch of Dark-ass bullshit to me, Parkinson.”

“It’s a potion with good intentions, so in that sense, it’s not Dark. Okay, yeah, it’s considered Dark because of the damage it can do to the one who takes it.”

“Let me get this straight...I drink some old, gnarly illegal concoction, and possibly die...for what?”

“To make Ginny live happily ever after.”

“Oh.”

See, that’s what happens when you’re a total chump for love. You wish for that person’s happiness, no matter how much pain it causes you.

“I’m drunk enough to believe you, Parkinson.”

A moment later, the both of us were tossing back our fragile little vials as if they were cherry cordials.

“Just one thing. There might be side-effects.”

“NOW you tell me?”

“It’s possible we could experience a few days of what muggles call ‘withdrawal’ symptoms.”

“Yeah, whatever. Can’t suck any more than what I’m feeling right now, lady.”

Potter had no idea just how wrong he was.

 

DAY TWO:

“Aargh!” He continued to moan into the elegant, onyx toilet bowl. “Just let me die, now!”

“Well, at least thank me for holding up your head, Potter.”

“Just wait til it’s your turn!” He convulsed again. “Blearghhh!”

“Ah, that’s the spirit! Puke up all that love for the Weaselette! She always made ME want to vomit.”

“What hell was in that bloody potion, anyway?”

“Hmm, let’s see...Phoenix tears, dried Unicorn droppings, Dragon snot. Rare and beautiful stuff, Potter!”

“Blearghhhh!”

 

DAY THREE:

“Blarghhh!”

“You were saying, Parkinson?”

“Just hold my head, you Gryffindor prick!”

“Meanwhile, I’m not the one puking Slytherin colors! That’s amazing!”

“Up yours! Blaarghhh!”

“You know, as long as we’re on the subject, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Were you actually a Death Eater or what?”

“Of course, I was a Death Eater, you jerk! Like I had any choice? Blaarghh!”

There was an excruciating silence. Even though I currently felt like dying right there on the elegant marble master bathroom floor, it was more important to explain the whole Death Eater thing.

“Look, Potter. I was a lower echelon grunt. I never kidnapped, killed or tortured anybody. To put it in muggle terms, I did photocopying and Latte runs.”

“It’s interesting the way you constantly put things in muggle terms. One would almost think you like them.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me, Parkinson.”

“Bwarrghhh!”

 

DAY FOUR:

Somewhere along the line, I had moved into Number 12 Grimmauld Place. There was plenty of room, and it just seemed to make sense, since the two of us were reacting so badly to the potion. It wasn’t as if there was any other place for me to go. Even though the lesser Death Eaters had been granted a blanket amnesty by a war-weary Ministry, my parents were both dead and the Manor sold for reparations. Very few employers were interested in hiring ex-Junior Death Eaters...even at rock-bottom wages.

In other words, I couldn’t even get a job cleaning toilets at the Hogshead.

“How do you feel today?” Potter asked me over breakfast.

The thought of eating anything but dry toast and tea still made me sick. “I think we’re over the worst.” I felt a dull ache.

“I feel...empty.” He gave a weary smile. “Not just in my stomach. All over. Like I’ve lost something.”

“I know.”

“You, too?”

“Yeah.” There was nothing more to be said. We both knew what we had lost. We both knew what the awful emptiness meant.

“So, should we go and see if it, you know, worked?”

I sighed. “This is the part that’s going to suck even more.”

“Why?” There was an awkward pause. “Oh, shit. What else did you forget to mention, Parkinson? Do we lose our hair and grow tails?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

If the potion worked properly, Draco and Ginny would suddenly, inexplicably, find themselves in love with each other. “Potter, has it occurred to you, what will probably happen when you see the Weas- Ginny again?”

“I’ll be happy for her.”

“Yeah, right. But what else will you feel?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know when really sappy people bore the crap out of you with their lame love stories? What’s that annoying shit they always spew? ‘Every time I see my wonderful little Pookie-Pie, I just fall in love all over again!’”

Potter just stared at me, appalled. “Bloody freaking hell.”

 

DAY FIVE:

There was only one way to see if the Loveless Haze actually worked. We had to test it firsthand, of course.

“Dobby is reporting to Master Harry Potter,” declared that irritating little house elf. Those rheumy eyes of his bulged with delight. “The Weazys and Dobby’s old family is having lunch in Diagon Alley at noon today!”

I must admit, the little creature appeared far happier now than he had been under the thumb of the Malfoys. For some odd reason, the thing actually seemed to like me.

“Master Draco’s Pansy is happy at Grimmauld Place?”

“It’s not bad.” Actually, the gloomy old place was starting to grow on me. When Potter and I weren’t being sick to our stomachs, we spent hours loitering in the immense library. Sometimes, the annoying werewolf wandered in to grab a few books, but he never stayed very long. It was as if he knew we were both in mourning and wanted to stay out of our way. The more I thought about it, the more I had to admit he was a pretty decent fellow. I wished I’d been more polite to him during our third year at Hogwarts.

Potter nudged me from my thoughts, and swirled something silky across my elbow.

“An invisibility cloak! All this time, you’ve had an invisible bloody cloak?”

Potter actually grinned. It was nice to see. “You should be used to spying, with all those years in Slytherin.”

“Shut up.”

“Right.”

But the levity vanished immediately after arriving at the restaurant in Diagon Alley. Huddled under the cloak, we positioned ourselves in an alcove near the window. Naturally, Narcissa had commandeered the best table in the entire establishment. She and Molly Weasley were chatting if not warmly, at least, amiably. Draco and Ginny, on the other hand, just looked at each other with shy, tentative smiles. The potion had worked!

Draco passed Ginny the basket of rolls and their fingers accidentally brushed each other. They both blushed, looking utterly adorable. Potter could scarcely take his eyes off the Weaselette. I stared at Draco hungrily.

“Oh, hell!” The realization was sickening. Potter and I completely and utterly screwed. We had fallen in love with them all over again.

 

DAY SIX:

“So, you interested in working for me, Parkinson?” he suddenly asked the next afternoon.

“Doing what, Potter? Helping write your memoirs?”

“Please. It’s just that you’re so good at organizing stuff.”

“You mean I’m a bossy bitch.”

“That, too.” He shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to having you around. Plus, you know all about the social niceties in the wizarding world. I’m way too inept and could really use the coaching.”

“That would be really believable if I thought you gave a shit about the bloody etiquette of the wizarding world, Potter,” I scoffed.

“Okay, okay. It’s...nice having someone to talk to. Someone who understands how this feels.” He was gazing furtively at a small wizarding photograph of the Weaselette. The picture kept winking saucily at him. It was pathetic, really.

“You are Love’s Bitch, Potter.”

“What about you, Parkinson?” He rolled his eyes as my fingers traced lazy circles in the comforting softness of the stolen faded-green dragon plushie. “We’re quite the pathetic pair.”

 

DAY SEVEN:

So, Potter and I moped around Grimmauld Place, which I must admit, has the perfect ambience if you want to be depressed. It was also the perfect place for the most popular, sought-after celebrity in the magical world to hide from an adoring public. Somehow, the highly paranoid wards that cosseted the house kept out any unsolicited owl. It was kind of soothing to keep the world at bay.

Lupin had started to suspect something was up, but like a typical Gryffindor, he was still trying to give us our space. He seemed distracted, himself, though.

Potter had been moody all day. He had a vacant, haunted expression on his face when he stalked over to the fireplace and grabbed some floo powder.

“It’s time to feel something,” he said. I barely made out the next word: “Puddleduck’s!”

The next thing I knew, I had followed his floo into a run-down bookshop, almost empty, except for several oblivious, elderly wizards. A few twists and turns later, and I caught the idiot’s trail as he emerged into the streets of Liverpool.

A short time later, he stood outside a rowdy muggle pub. Potter carefully removed his robe to reveal a Manchester United jersey. With a cocky grin, he turned and strode into the seedy building.

A few seconds later, a familiar voice screamed out, “Owens is a pussy!”

Of course, I had to intervene. Even in an establishment exclusively populated by muggle Crabbes, Goyles and Flints. It was the work of a moment to stun everyone in the place, and pull Potter from underneath the dogpile. By that time, he was quite a bloody mess.

“Whad’ya do that for?” he protested. “I was having fun!”

Apparently, I had failed to get the point. Potter had wanted those muggle hooligans to beat the living crap out of him. He wanted something to take the place of the numbness inside.

“Every time I love something, they take it away,” he muttered before passing out.

 

DAY EIGHT:

The morning’s edition of The Daily Prophet ran a cover story on the upcoming Weasley-Malfoy nuptials. I took one look at the photograph of Draco kissing Weaselette’s hand as she giggled coyly. It still hurt to see him gaze adoringly at his fiancee. He’d never looked at me with quite as much warmth and pleasure.

Potter had already seen the picture, and sat in a stony silence, stirring his oatmeal without interest.

“Harry?” Lupin stared at him. “What happened to your face?”

“Nothing.”

The werewolf knew he wasn’t going to get a satisfactory explanation. He turned to me. “Miss Parkinson, perhaps you might shed some light on the subject.”

“So nice of you to finally take an interest, Professor Lupin,” I replied icily.

“I’m inclined to agree I’ve been remiss,” the werewolf admitted. “Forgive me, pup. I’ve been...preoccupied.”

“Whatever.”

 

DAY NINE:

The wizarding world is so very, very civilized. Potter and I each received our invitations to the engagement party. I’ve got to admit, he looked pretty classy in expensive, tailored black dress robes.

I say without conceit, that I looked pretty attractive with my shiny black hair in an up-do, and formal midnight-blue robes. It was still, however, the most excruciatingly awful two hours of my life.

Potter and I showed up separately. I mean, it’s not like we’re really friends, or anything. By the time I arrived, the bash at Malfoy Manor was in full swing.

The Weaselette looked lovely, I must admit, all silk and cream. How could I ever have thought her ugly? And Draco was just gazing at her with a look so deep and full of longing that I could have cried.

In a brief moment alone, he confided in me. “I didn’t think I could ever feel this way about someone, Pans.”

The Weaselette was a few feet away, laughing gaily at something Harry was saying. Draco continued to beam. It made him look beautiful. It was the same love that I thought made Potter seem so sickeningly maudlin, but on Draco it made me ache. I knew that emptiness would remain with me, forever.

When Draco drifted away to mingle with other more important guests, I discreetly eavesdropped on the nearby couple.

“Harry,” Weaselette was saying, “Isn’t this better?”

“Isn’t what better?”

“How things turned out.” She paused. “I mean, the way I felt about you...it was all a silly schoolgirl crush.”

“Ah.” His voice had a rusty edge to it, but Weaselette gabbled on, oblivious.

“What I feel for Draco is the real thing! We’re soulmates! It’s like it was meant to be.”

Merlin, would that girl ever shut up?”

“I’m truly happy for you, Gin.” He kissed her on the cheek.

She smiled beatifically, twirling around to join her fiance. Draco had returned with several flutes of champagne and planted possessive kisses in her bright, red hair.

Potter was still smiling, but it was a frozen, stage smile. It was a Witch’s Weekly coverboy smile. A charming, future Minister of Magic smile. He turned to me with a brittle cheeriness in his voice.

“So, would you like to get the fuck out of here?”

“Potter, I thought you’d never ask.”

Once we were in the carriage, he asked. “You want to get a drink?”

I glared at him. “Not if you’re suggesting a return to that muggle pub.”

“No. I’ve already had the crap beaten out of me tonight.”

“Yeah.”

 

ONE MONTH LATER:

Draco Malfoy and Ginevra Weasley were married with all the pomp and circumstance of a wealthy, pureblood wedding. The Weasley family, clueless fucks that they are, even asked The Boy Who Lived to make the wedding toast.

The bride never looked so exquisitely radiant, and the groom was speechless with joy. They were both so beautiful, both so in love, it might have been something out of a fairytale.

Immediately after the reception, Potter and I adjourned to the One-Eyed Welshman pub in Islington. I rather considerately held his dress robes for him as he hoisted a Guinness and screamed “Gunners suck!”

He spent two nights in St. Mungo’s after that one. Growing a new set of teeth takes time, even with Skele-gro.

By this point, even Lupin had finally wised up. “It’s my fault for neglecting you, Harry. It was just being in this house, and remembering Sirius...and I thought you needed your space.” He was practically weeping. Trust me, there are few things as creepy as a maudlin werewolf.

“It’s okay, Remus. Really.” He glanced over at me.

Honestly, so what if I visited Potter all day in the hospital? It’s not as if I had anything else to do.

The next afternoon, Potter was released, and sent home to convalesce on the most comfortable couch in the parlor.

“I’ve been thinking,” Potter remarked after Lupin had retired to his rooms for the evening. “I’d kind of like you to stop calling me Potter.”

“Only if you stop calling me Parkinson.”

“Deal.”

“So, are we finished feeling like crap, Harry?”

He shrugged. “I might have said ‘no’ a couple of days ago, but a loveless haze is pretty damn tiring after while.”

“I agree.”

“So, Pansy,” he hesitated. “After I get back on my feet again, you want to do something?”

“Like what?” It actually felt nice to have a normal conversation with an attractive guy. And Harry Potter was very attractive. I could allow myself to finally see him that way. It was a pleasant realization.

“I’ve spent practically my entire life at someone else’s beck and call. I’ve never traveled. I’ve never seen anything just for the sheer fun of it. I’ve never wasted time laying by a pool or shopping for things I don’t need.”

“I have, and it’s a lot of fun, actually.” I paused. “So, you’re inviting me, then?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like that, Harry. I could use some fun right now.”

“I think we both could, actually.” He leaned back against the cushions.

It was at that very moment, my mind flashed forward to an image of the two of us having frenzied, wild sex on some remote tropical beach. Hastily, I cleared my throat. “I’m tired, as well. I believe I’ll turn in.”

“Goodnight, Pans.”

For just a moment, my stomach lurched as I heard the familiar nickname come from someone who wasn’t Draco. Just for a moment, I ached again for the loss. But then, another flash came. A slightly older Harry Potter was handing a couple of brooms to two very excited, black-haired children. They appeared to be twins.

“Can we, Mummy?” One of them turned to me.

“It is their birthday, after all,” Harry grinned in my direction.

Just as quickly as the vision came, it was gone. But just so you know, I think most visions are bullshit. If I ever take a crystal ball and start mouthing off like Trelawney, please smack me upside my head. And yet...

I shook myself free of the beguiling images, and glanced over at the couch. Harry was sound asleep. Ah, what the hell, I shrugged. I leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. His lips were warm and responsive, even in sleep. It was the impulse of a moment, and I half-expected him to murmur “Gin!” longingly in his sleep.

I pulled away guiltily, and started to creep out of the room.

“Let ‘em have their brooms, Pans, honey,” he murmured sleepily.

I froze. What was that? Nothing. The parlor was quickly accented with gentle, rhythmic snores. Obviously, it had all been in my mind. Honestly, I’ve got such an over-active imagination sometimes.

I mean, really! Sex on a beach with Harry Potter? Marrying Potter? Having kids with Potter? Potter calling me “honey” in his sleep?

Give me a break! I don’t believe it for a minute. Not a single minute.

Honestly. I’m not kidding. That’s just such a load of nonsense. Sentimental, wish-fulfillment fantasy.

 

I mean, if I’m going to believe such touchy-feely bullshit, I might as well be a Hufflepuff...

Oh, shut up. 

 

  
THE END.


End file.
